


At least there's Light

by certifiedcrier



Category: The 100
Genre: Death, Gore, M/M, Sad, Violence, no happy ending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-19
Updated: 2015-08-19
Packaged: 2018-04-15 12:52:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,060
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4607457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/certifiedcrier/pseuds/certifiedcrier
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I was in a bad mood when I wrote this, sorry that it's tragic as hell.<br/>---------------------------------------------------------<br/>Somewhere in the projects of Detroit, in a plaster-falling, moonlit room, he holds a gun to me and tells me that with one painless motion, we'd have everything that we could ever wished for.<br/>Wishes are for those who can afford to bargain. We're broke.</p>
            </blockquote>





	At least there's Light

“You know what!?” My words angry, I don’t think I’ve ever hated someone so much.

“What?” he sneers, he hates me just as much, maybe even more.

“I actually - I really believed that maybe, maybe, we could’ve worked things out.”

“You’re shitting me, right?”

No I’m not shitting him, I mean it. I really believed that after the whole debacle with Aron and Kristy, we could’ve moved on. Excuse me for having hope.

“No I’m not shitting you, does it look like I am?” I swear, one of us is leaving with a black eye. It always ends up that way.

Sometimes I wish I was normal. I wish I loved a woman - not that being gay is bad, but it’s the fact that I’m in love with him. I wish I could live in a beautiful ranch-styled home, maybe in the suburbs… somewhere in Colorado. I wouldn’t mind having a nine-to-five job, maybe as an accountant. I’d come home, greet my wife and our little girl or boy. We’d have a home cooked meal and go to bed happy. I’d get a little irritated over the way her hair would itch my face, but we’d laugh it off. We’d have friends who, instead of having criminal records, own memberships to fancy yacht clubs and country houses. We’d go on a European holiday for a week every summer and we'd laugh about how our child has ice cream on their nose without realizing it.

Wishes are for people who can afford to bargain. I’m broke.

I live in a shitty-ass apartment in the dumps of Detroit - we even have bars on the windows. I don’t have a good job, and neither does he.

“I’m fucking done with this. All of it,” he throws his arms in the air, his ribs popping out with the action. He has yet to put on his shirt. His jeans are still undone. I look the same as he does. We were in the middle of having sex when the argument broke out. It was hot, angry, passionate fucking and that’s the only thing we know anymore. It’s not even intimate.  
I can’t remember a time when it was. I can’t classify a single thing he does as sweet, graceful, or kind.

I forget why we’re fighting for a moment. Oh, right. The lightbulb besides the mattress burnt out. Now, the only thing that lights up Murphy’s face, is the raw moonlight that the clouds filter.

“This isn’t working out,” his words hang heavy in the air, no one’s taking them. They just float around the room, taunting me.

I let out a light laugh. “You’re only picking up on this now?” I ask, his jaw sets tight as he clenches his pale fists, a blue vein appearing on his forearm. I have a strong urge to cut it open, I want to watch the life ooze from his body. Him being gone would solve countless problems.

I’m eyeing that part of him for a lot longer than I should be.

“I want to break up.” my eyes meet his. He’s going to regret those words.

“No.”

“I’m sorry, the last time I checked, you don’t control me.” That’s fucking bullshit if I’ve ever heard it.

My lips twist into a smile. “I may not control you, but you need me,” he knows my words are true. He’s just a stubborn brat who won’t admit it. “You’re nothing without me, don’t you get that?” I laugh out at the end. Why is he fucking with me? He knows he can’t do that, he knows very well that he can’t win.

“Yeah, I’ve been thinking about that for a while,” he walks over to the box in the corner of the room. It holds junk; used batteries, take-out menus - not that we can afford it, we don’t even have phones, and a-

He lifts the pistol out of the cardboard with ease, twirling it in his fingers. My posture betters, I stand my ground. He won’t do it, he can’t do it.

“And I’ve come up with a little solution, and that’s,”

“Killing me?”

He shoots the celling, plaster raining down like the snow outside. Somehow, the particles falling onto his hair is a more beautiful scene. How sick is that?

“Don’t interrupt me.”

I don’t worry about the cops. I’m not even startled by the sound. In this apartment complex, more than half the tenants don’t pay rent, simply because they come here to die.

“There is a way we can be together.”

“I thought you wanted a break up?” I sneer, he shoots at my feet. I jump back, holding myself against the wall.

“What the fuck did I say?!”

I keep my mouth shut as he walks up to me, playing with the object that shouldn’t be tampered with.

“I found a way that we can be together - since you’re so sure that I need you. We won’t have to worry about money, or finding a place to live, no more eviction notices, no more getting paid to fuck people,” I bite my tongue, my heart racing as he places the loaded weapon under my chin. I swallow. The metal burns. It’s burning hot, I’m tearing up.

“You don’t have the guts,”

Two consecutive shots, one right after the other. I see it all. My blood decorates the yellowing wall, bits of my brain add texture. A gapping hole under my chin, the exit is located out the top of my head. Murphy’s blood decorates the mattress. Why does he get the bed?

The lamp begins to flicker. After about a moment, it stabilizes and illuminates the crime scene.  
Murphy’s sitting besides himself of the mattress, staring at the lamp.

“I don’t love you anymore,” I admit, not seeing the point of waisting a second, even though we have nothing but time.

“It was fun while it lasted.”

He lied to me. He promised me all those lovely things, but we're still here. I could hate him - resent him for killing me irrationally, but I don't. I just can't seem to find it in me to care enough about him to hate him.

The light flickers again, but when I look to the mattress, he’s gone. I'm still here. Oh well, at least I have light.

The light burns out.

Nothing lasts forever.

**Author's Note:**

> oops


End file.
